by CeeCee James
I rubbed my temples, trying to get a grip. There was something incredibly creepy about talking with a stranger, thinking you were safely hidden under a mask of anonymity on the internet, only to find out that person knew your identity. Even worse, I didn’t know his.
Who was I talking to on Trek’s World? Was it actually my mailman? Or was it someone else? Someone who’d been there that day, watching me as I watched the divers? I remember Kari nudging me and pointing out Roy Merlock. That’s right…she’d said his son was a mailman. I closed my eyes and grabbed for the counter.
I saw him at the barbershop too. The guy that I’d recognized. He’d sang in the quartet. The roll of paper…it had come from that barbershop.
The barber had mentioned they’d been talking with Lenny about Johnson Lake and the riddle recently. Had Roy’s son been there that day? Seen the interest in Lenny’s eyes, maybe even suspected that Lenny was going for one last dive and decided to stalk him?
I was practically hyperventilating. I remembered then that GettingStamped had a YouTube channel. Quickly, I brought it up.
It was the same as the last time I’d searched. I pressed the fast forward, but there was nothing on the video other than a TV screen with a red curtain. I recognized his voice though, now that I’d heard him at the barber shop.
I sat back. Okay, who do I take this crazy idea to? Uncle Chris? Kari? Should I call the deputy directly?
My phone buzzed, making me jump. I fumbled with it, trying to pick it up.
It was a text from Mrs. Crawford.
I laughed at myself. What a reaction! What was I thinking, that GettingStamped had obtained my phone number?
Shaking my head, I clicked it.
She wrote—I’d forgotten all about that! I was eleven, determined to make my mark and in love with the neighbor boy.
She was responding to the picture I’d sent of the poem by the stairs. I texted back. —I was getting ready to paint. Do you want me to save this for posterity?
She texted back immediately.—Heavens no. Paint over it.
Okay. I had my marching orders then.
Her distraction helped me to calm down. That was good. I needed some clear thinking. If it was the mailman, I wasn’t going to be a popular person in town. I was barely tolerated since I was related to that ‘Flamingo Realty riff-raff.’ I didn’t think they’d forgive me for getting one of the town’s founding fathers’ sons tossed in the pokey.
However, if this founding father’s son killed another founding father’s descendent, that might change things in their eyes, right? I mean, Old Man Lenny was a chef up at the White Horse restaurant and famous around here. People loved him. You never know, Flamingo Realty might get a boost in the likable department if we found Lenny’s killer.
Sick. Stella. This whole line of thought is sick.
I shook my head and walked over to the fridge for a box of frozen chicken. Let me just throw this in the oven and then call Uncle Chris. It’d be good to go over all of this with him. He’ll know what to do.
I was ripping open the box when I noticed a vehicle pull into my driveway.
It was the mailman.
Chapter 21
The mail truck drove all the way down the driveway. I didn’t stay by the window to watch him park. Instead, I darted to the front door to make sure it was locked. And then I called Uncle Chris.
He answered on the third ring.
“Uncle Chris,” I hissed in the phone. Ducking out of sight from the window in the door, I scurried around the corner.
“Stella? What’s wrong?”
“Come quick. Call the cops for me.” My heart pounded so hard, it felt like it was going to come out of my chest.
Well, if that wasn’t a shocker, I don’t know what one was. Uncle Chris handled it like a champ, probably from years of having his adrenaline worn out on the race course.
“Where are you?” he asked, his voice tight.
“At my house. Remember that guy I told you about? I think he’s here stalking me.”
“I’m on my way. Don’t hang up. Kari! Come quick” Uncle Chris yelled to Kari. She must be in the office as well. “Call 911 and send them to Stella’s house. Someone’s trying to break in.”
That wasn’t exactly what was happening, but it could be at any minute.
My muscles felt frozen by fear. I forced myself to crawl along the worn carpet, looking like an inchworm, and finally contorted myself next to the couch so I could peek through the bay window. Suddenly, I felt like I was going to pass out. Breathe. Breathe. It was insane that I had to remind myself.
The mail truck had parked and someone inside was staring at the house. What was he thinking? Then he looked down for a moment.
Suddenly, my phone dinged. I glanced and saw I had a text from an unknown number.
Package delivery for Stella O’Neil from Steve O’Neil.
It said it was my father. I peeked out the window. No way! It was the young guy from the barber shop! He was getting out of the truck with what looked like a box in his hands. He also had one of those tablets that you signed when you received something.
I sank down against the wall, thinking hard. Was I being a total idiot? Was it possible that my dad had sent something? Was this all a coincidence and I was overreacting?
One thing was for sure, I didn’t have to decide what to do. I already knew. Coincidence or not, I was staying here on the floor until he left. I’d seen enough movies to know what happens when the girl second-guesses herself and then dives head first into danger. If it was a legitimate delivery, the package would be waiting for me at the post office.
He stomped up the porch steps, one of the scariest sounds I’d ever heard. I waited on the floor, holding my breath.
“Stella?” Uncle Chris boomed in my ear.
I nearly dropped the phone. “Shh. He’s here.”
“Don’t you move, Stella, I’m almost there.”
I didn’t respond. The door rattled with a knock. It was a heavy wood door, original like everything else in the house. Could he break it down? I stared hard before jerking back. Did the doorknob just turn? I searched around wildly for a weapon. He’s going to see me through the window if I move! Where could I go to escape?
Feet pounded on the stairs. I peeked out the window again. He wasn’t going back to the truck. Where was he?
Oh, no. Was the back door locked? I glanced at the window. Still not seeing him, I army-crawled across the floor to the kitchen. My heart hammered double-time when I realized I didn’t hear anything more outside. Was he still there? Or was he trekking around the house, searching for a way in?
I reached the back door, cursing all the windows in the kitchen. Not a single one of them had a curtain. If he walked by, he’d surely see me laying on the floor, flopping about like a seal out of water. Never mind, just check the door.
It was unlocked. I bolted it. Still no noise from outside, including a van starting up. He had to still be here. What was he looking for?
I slowly slid up against the wall until standing. There was the knife block next to the stove. I snatched a knife and held it by my side. My hand trembled.
Why, oh, why did I move all the way out here? I’d thought it was so romantic, a little cottage out in the country side. Now it felt like a death trap, smack-dab out in the middle of nowhere. There weren’t any close neighbors for me to yell for help. My breath rattled in my throat. Stop, it Stella! I needed to calm down and think about my options should he break in.
It was hard to focus past the fear. How was I even in this situation? I glanced out the kitchen window, formulating a plan. If he comes back here, I’ll run for my car. I need to get my keys.
I dropped back to the floor, cold and covered in crumbs from my neglect, and began to crawl toward the living room chair. I remembered I’d dropped them there when I first came in. There was another knock on the door. My blood felt like ice in my veins as I clamped my hand over my mouth, stifling a squeal.
I
swear I could smell my fear—metallic and sour like pennies. Quiet, be very quiet. Just get to the chair.
I had to cross the front of the hall to reach the living room. I peeked around the corner, just in time to see him squinting through the door window. I pulled my head back, feeling like I was about to pass out again.
Breathe. He didn’t see me. Not down here.
I heard more stomping on the stairs. I waited, trying to listen above my blood pounding in my ears.
Had he really left? Was he trying to fake me out? I peeked again and, seeing no one, I scurried into the living room.
My face against the rough wood floors, I listened hard, hoping against all else to hear his truck start up.
There was nothing. Even the birds were quiet.
Slowly, I army-crawled over to the chair. I reached to lift my purse down. My grasp slipped and it fell. I caught it but wasn’t able to prevent it from jingling. I held my breath and waited.
Still nothing.
Carefully, I pulled out my keys and set the purse down. Okay, I needed to get out sight from all these windows. But where?
I finally decided to hide back by the sofa. If I curled right next to it, the sofa shielded me from the bay window, and I could still make it to the front door if I had to run.
Then, I did hear it. Tires crunching down the dirt driveway. Was it him or Uncle Chris? I waited a moment to see what would happen, then peered out the window again.
I gasped. The mail truck was gone. He had left.
I sank back to the floor, my insides fluttering with a weird mixture of relief and fear. Then I realized the police were on their way. How was I going to explain this?
I realized then I still had my phone squeezed tight in my hand. Uncle Chris had taken me literally, when I’d said Shh. He hadn’t made another sound.
“Um, hi,” I said, lifting the phone to my ear. “He just left.”
“He’s gone?”
“Yeah,” I laid the knife down on the floor and then covered my eyes. My hands trembled.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. No. I feel sort of silly. But wait until I tell you my reasons for freaking out.”
“I’m here now,” he said brusquely.
I sprang up and saw my Uncle’s sports car pulling into the driveway. Maybe the mailman had heard a vehicle coming down the road and that’s why he left. Maybe he wasn’t so innocent after all.
I ran to the door and yanked it open. There was a package on the front stoop.
Chapter 22
Welcome to Grand Central. That was my life for the next hour and forty-five minutes. It turns out, when you call about a stalker breaking into a house, more than one cop car shows up. In fact, I had a flood of cop cars, filling the driveway and even parked on the road.
I thought they would all be skeptical about my suspicions of the mailman, what with an actual package being left on the doorstep. But instead, they were a captivated audience. With leather gloves, they took my postage envelope, the paper scroll, as well as screen shots of all my communications with GettingStamped. All my evidence was only circumstantial at this point. But it was enough for one of the detectives to get a search warrant. I wished they came with a tranquilizer, because after all that, I was feeling like I needed one about the size for a horse.
No tranquilizers came. Instead there was a nice taste of satisfaction in finding out that my mailman was indeed Jay Merlock. He must have gotten a whiff that it was coming because he never showed up back at the post office. I had a feeling passing the parade of cop cars headed my way was the influence behind his disappearance. No one had any idea where he was. Which was lovely. The cops told me to keep on my guard. I was feeling about as jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room of rocking chairs. You can thank Oscar for that little metaphor. It’s what he said I reminded him of when he saw me later that day.
I was with Oscar when I heard what the police found in Jay’s house. Thanks to the good ol’ police radio Oscar still had from his FBI days, I learned that Jay shared the home with his father, Roy Merlock, and true to stereotype, Jay lived in the basement.
Apparently, the basement was filled with medieval armor and weapons. Seeing it, I could understand why he was so passionate to add the sword to his collection. I remember him saying that something that priceless should never be sold.
Still, this could have all been chalked up to someone with eclectic interests except for one thing. Found in the corner, under a crocheted brown-and-white zig-zagged blanket, were scuba tanks and face mask. Forensics found DNA as well, caught in the metal hinge of the strap on the face mask. By some amazing stroke of luck, Old Man Lenny must have struck a blow in their fight and grappled with the mask. Forensics came back with it being a positive match for Lenny.
I remembered the day I saw Jay at the barber shop, and jokingly thinking maybe the barber had given him too close of a shave. He’d had a small cut near his ear. It was chilling to think of now.
As far as what happened on that fateful day, the theory was that Jay had been with Lenny at the barber shop when news of the book being found broke. Jay suspected Lenny would give one more search, especially knowing the owners were gone and the house was up for sale. He also suspected that Lenny would have the best idea where to look, given that it’d been his family’s house.
Jay had broken into the Johnson cabin and waited for Lenny to show up. When Lenny entered the lake, Jay followed soon behind him. It was after Lenny recovered the sword, that Jay murdered Lenny.
The medallion fell out of the sword when Jay brought it out of the lake. He may have even gone back to the house to wash up. My arrival to show the house to potential buyers may have caught him by surprise. He hid his flippers—perhaps thinking he didn’t want to be caught with them when Lenny was discovered—and disappeared, most likely as I was getting out of the car.
Later, I’d actually seen him, when he’d ostensibly drove up to put a flyer in the mailbox, but really was there to watch.
The murderer always returns to the scene of the crime.
I shivered, thinking of how close we came to passing one another. While I was admiring the beautiful autumn leaves, he was making his escape. Creepy.
After filling me up with spaghetti, and a few Peanut kisses, Oscar sent me home. I drove back thinking about how close the case was ready to be buttoned up. There was just one problem.
No one knew where either Jay Merlock or the sword were.
But I had an idea where both could possibly be. I parked the car and looked around for intruders before running up to the porch and unlocking the door. After dropping my purse on the counter, I grabbed my computer. There were those strange videos that Jay had taken, all of them filmed in a red room with a giant tv. It was a place that wasn’t found in the Merlocks’ house.
I’d shared the video channel with Detective Carlson. “Find this room and you’ll find him.” He gruffly assured me that they were searching.
After that there was only one thing left for me to do. It was something more terrifying than anything I’d gone through up to this point.
Talk to my dad.
Chapter 23
It was somewhere between the removal of the wallpaper in the living room, and the painting of the second wall that I finally worked up my courage to make the call. My palms were sweating and I mentally reminded myself, “You’re an adult. You’re an adult.” It was like my new mantra, and it felt totally fake. But it worked.
Honestly, I don’t remember how it went. After he said hello, I blurted out the story in verbal vomit. It wasn’t pretty, and at the end, all I could do was hold my breath and brace for his response.
What he said shocked me. “Stella, I’m glad you’re safe. You’re an adult. I trust you.”
My mouth dropped. “Really? You’re okay with everything?”
He sighed in the heavy way he used to when I’d try to explain a bad grade on a homework assignment. I cringed and tightened my stomach muscles.
“No, I
’m not okay with it. You’ll always be my little girl. I dragged it out probably longer than most parents since you’re my only child. But you’ve been taking care of yourself for a few years now. I have to let go.” He paused and then added, “Even if I hate it.”
I laughed.
“Did you get my package?” he asked.
I did. This time, he’d sent my old childhood stuffed animal, BunBun, to me, along with a few books I’d loved growing up. Funny how much that animal made me smile when I took her out of the box. I may have hugged her for comfort one more time.
Our conversation ended with me getting a promise out of him that he’d think about coming to Pennsylvania to visit. “But I’d rather you come back here. I’ll pay for a ticket any time you want,” he’d insisted.
So, I was humming as I continued to roll paint on the walls. The color was a light yellow cream, the exact shade of the center of an apple blossom. Already the place was feeling fresh.
I’d even figured out what to do with the poem and signature at the bottom of the stairs. I couldn’t bear to paint over it, so I found a little stencil, and painted green leaves around it like a frame. I couldn’t wait to show Mrs. Crawford.
Later that night, after a long bath, I climbed on the bed with my great-great Grandma’s letters. I smoothed a new one out and opened up the Translate app on my phone. But the sight of the app honestly gave me anxiety, remembering how I’d used it to translate the sword poem. I tucked everything away again. I’d try in the daylight, when Translate didn’t make me immediately think of the mailman on my front porch.
Instead, I wandered downstairs and found my jar of seashells, my treasure from the second-hand store. I carefully spilled them across the kitchen table.
They were so pretty. The pale blues and mother-of-pearl iridescent insides made me want to lick it. What an odd feeling, but I did give it a tiny lick. Salty.